


Like Concrete

by NinoPoli



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationship, Course Language, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Mental Illness, Mental Institutions, Murder, Sexual Content, Sexual Harrassment, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:51:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8323342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinoPoli/pseuds/NinoPoli
Summary: Harry is an enthusiastic psychology student whose case study happens to be the countries most infamous man who has walked in three decades.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing about psychology, how universities work or most of the illnesses mentioned. I research to the best of my ability but that still equates to having minimum knowledge on these complex subjects so please excuse any mistakes.
> 
> Also I don't see myself as an extremely skilled or professional writer, so my apologies for any grammatical mistakes, cliches, predictability or other general mistakes. I edit and spellcheck as best as I can.
> 
> -
> 
> Very Important: In no way is this story a romantisiation/glorification of the tags mentioned above. I don't like writing anything too dark or intense but some subjects I mention below can be triggering so please read the tags. I will tag anything that may be of potential harm before each chapter in the notes and you are very welcome to comment any further critisms or related comments regarding trigger warnings and other similar topics.
> 
> In no way do I intend to glorify mental illness, violence, abuse or toxic/unhealthy relationships. The relationship in this story is one of purely bad intentions, manipulation and abuse. In no way was it meant to be seen as idealised or in any shape or form okay. My ideas were to explore that of Harry's character and all of how his mind works in this story. If you have any questions or concerns please be free to comment and I will take it in large consideration. 
> 
> The overall idea of this story was influenced by the story of the relationship between Harley Quin and the Joker seen in the DC comics. I wanted to adopt parts of that story and make it into a more contemporary, realistic and less romantic story, but still running between similar dynamics and themes of the story.
> 
>  
> 
> Again, if you have any concerns please message me. I try to be as open minded as I can. My overall intentions are not one bit negative. This is not a smut or a love story, it is a dark story that has been growing in my head for the last month and I've found the concepts interesting so I decided to expand and explore them further :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

"Harry Styles it's nice to meet you. I'm Doctor Goodwin and I run most of what goes on in here."

A tall man appears from the depths of the long hall attached to the small holding room Harry stands within. The structure of his face engulfs the fluorescent beamed light hanging from the damp ceiling and his colleagues start to gasp and whisper.

"I've heard great things from your professor! Bright minded apparently and I've also heard you're quite the people pleaser." Dr Goodwin smiles, not all the way, but enough not to be considered fake or without effort.

"Well, I uh, try my hardest in my studies." Harry chirps nervously. He feels awfully like an annoying lab rat, he's never been quite so nervous to establish himself as professional, kind, likeable and determined all at once.

His long sweaty fingers grasp his notepad by his sides and his pen is held between his fingers, blue inked and screaming to become subject to his clammy fingers as a nervous tap.

He walks with Dr Goodwin, a highly regarded figure that was mentioned in his battered textbooks several times back on campus. Harry admires his work within his fields, which makes him slightly star struck just being in the mans presence, because he knows how important the man guiding him through these long, cement floored hallways really is.

The pair start to walk straight back down of the hall the older man had just emerged out of. He tells Harry some facts about the building involving it's long history. Harry doesn't mean not to listen much, his mind seems to be blocking out or making gibberish of things that aren't considered entirely important.

He passes a few others from his lectures striding the halls in an opposite direction to the two men, both of the two look in shock, one girl has her head in her hands, her mascara run messily down her freckled cheeks with her colleague's arms holding her in support.

"You've studied patient 0067 in detail so I hope I'm not repeating things here but it's in my conduct that I make you aware of the situation you are about to face Mr Styles." Dr Goodwin tells him, swinging his head back slightly while they walk together. Harry walks behind the older man and nods his head at his words, making sure he looks eager but none the less put together and ready for what ever may happen within the interrogation room.

"Patient 0067 is of extreme narcissism, he's been diagnosed several times. Manic Bipolar. Major Schizophrenia. Chronically depressed. Dissociative Identity Disorder. That's just to name a few."

Harry swallows thickly. He knows this information. He's been following the patients case for the last two terms and he's confident within himself not to make any judgements too quickly, regarding that the patient has been diagnosed many times, and Doctors are still unsure where his mentality lies within the scale of illness and disorder.

Soon enough they reach a heavy, thick looking steel door. The stainless steel is littered in scratches and dents. The handle is sturdy and wide. A small cloudy looking window sits a third of the way up the door from the floor and Harry can't help but to peer in while still resisting to rising to his tippy toes as the view is obstructed by whatever sits within the cold and damp room.

Dr Goodwin places a strong hand on the handle, but does not open it. Instead he turns to Harry. His glasses are too far down his nose as he glares over him like a hawk. Harry, for once in his life feels immediately small, and suddenly he's ridden with nerves, a different more tingly kind. It pins his heart, and he'll never admit he's frightened out loud, but within himself he knows the reality of being separated by only a sheet of glass from the cities most feared, dangerous and evil human being in three decades starts to make his heart beat a little faster than he'd like.

Dr Goodwin runs through conduct involving risk protection and Harry isn't taking too much notice of his words. He's anticipated this moment for too long and his mind is doing backflips just imaging what might occur behind that very closed door.

"I have good faith in you kid. Good luck. Your under good care. We'll be watching if he start's to cause a ruckus." Dr Goodwin smiles again similarly to his last. Harry notes this must be the third of fourth time he'd have to repeat this very speech so he nods confidently and lets one of the residents security guards that appears behind the heavy steel door to guide him ahead without hesitation.

In the room there is a long narrow table sliced horizontally in half by thick glass of a similar state to the miniature one that appeared on the door behind him. Scratches. Cuts. Hand and finger prints, even a few cracks. Harry imagines what could of possibly caused them. The thought makes his heart rise further up his throat.

On either side of the glass there are two chairs. One for patient 0067 and one for Harry himself.  
Behind him is a narrow window that Harry knows can only be used one way. Harry is not facing the right way, but Dr Goodwin and his Professor most likely are.

Harry steps carefully raising his head and letting his eyes open fully to the scene in front of him.

Patient 0067 is already digging his eyes into Harry's body. He sits languidly on the chair, which should seem impossible due to being so heavily restricted. The straight jacket makes him appear thin and the muzzle makes him animal like. Harry gulps, his adams apple popping in and out. The man watches it, his mouth almost salivating. Harry watches his face carefully between blinks and attempts to make it seem like he isn't staring.

The legs of the chair make a horrible noise against the concrete floors of the interrogation room, but the patient does not stir. He keeps his eyes locked on Harry, but Harry can't quite figure out where he is exactly focusing, his eyes seem to search him silently and slowly. Intensely. He feels examined. Watched.

Carefully, he lays his pen and notepad on the metal table top. It makes a soft thud in the eco ridden room. The patient's eyes fall to his pen as it rolls side to side on the table and Harry notices his shaking hands must of made it that way.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes momentarily. When he opens them the patient is looking directly at his face, his eyes alining exactly where ever his pupils move ever so slightly. It's almost like machinery. Clockwork.

"Hello," Harry starts. His voice is steady. He mentally forces himself to breathe properly.

"I'm Harry."

"Hello Harry," the patient replies. His voice is rough. Like he's just woken up after a long night. Crackly. Raw. It makes Harry physically shiver.

"I'm uh, from the inner state uni-"

"Oh I know. Spare me the introduction. I've heard it many times already."The patient tells him, a sick grin plastered on his face.

Harry momentarily comes to the realisation that he is not the first person to interview the patient and that the patient doesn't just somehow know this information, which relaxes him, but also means his colleagues have stuck to the textbooks and handouts, exactly what he wanted to do, which only seemed to make the situation seem even more intense with the thought of the patient being aggravated, bored or frustrated with the same old questions.

Harry stutters to make words. Half of his mind is urgently telling him to stick to what he's been taught and told to ask. The guidelines. The boring old guidelines. The other half of his mind is debating a point that makes Harry's stomach stir up with fear and excitement, the combination that has gotten him into trouble too many times to count. He wants to push. To be different. Remembered. But most importantly, he wants to know or attempt to know the person in front of him. To understand him. To discover what makes a serial killers mind tick.

"Okay. Well I'll just get into it then." Harry says nervously. Deciding that being boring is just, well, plain boring, and Harry was never known to be boring.

"Very well then." The patient grins once again.

"Do you-" Harry begins to start, but is interrupted by the man in front of him. A voice that makes his spine feel cracked and cold.

"How's this," the patient leans forward as much as his current attire lets him.

"I'll start. You seem nervous. Nervous isn't good for first impressions yes?"

Harry stills, but somehow nods. His heart begins to beat faster.

"Do you feel safe?" The patient asks. His eyes don't leave Harry's face. Harry waits for him to blink but it seems as if he simply never does.  
Looking at his own torn boots, Harry bites his lip in consideration to the question. He decides to maintain professional, but ultimately himself, or at least the appropriate amount of.

"The two armed guards behind you and the glass between us should make me. I've seen you make your way around that though."

"You've watched my tapes huh?" He growls, laughing a little. Harry hums in agreement.

"Done your research then. Good boy."

Harry nods. Going for his pen, but before his fingers can grasp around its grip, the man on the other side of the glass suddenly jerks forward, ratting the chains underneath him. The security guards stutter forward half a step. Cautious and ready to intervene if necessary. Harry jumps embarrassingly bad. All his nerves rise to the tip of his skin and his heart seems to want to leave his ribcage.

The patient laughs softly but rather manically. Harry watches him do it, the scruff on his chin unshaven and rough looking. His eyes crinkly and scrounged up.

Maybe it's of habit. But with humiliation comes a cartoon like blush and small bashful smile that Harry really can't believe he's admitting. The patient catches it and his grin becomes greater.

"Nervous?" He asks, voice high and questioning.

"Yes, very," Harry speaks truthfully, a small glimmer of his previous smile still standing as he fiddles with the edge of his note pad.

"I'm not good with strangers." Harry tells him, but he's not sure why.

"Well, let's not be strangers then shall we?" The patient says chipper, raising his brow and the corners of his mouth.

Harry simply nods.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I guess. Nice of you to ask. Usually they have them written, somewhere down there..." The patient says, his eyes taking place of his arms as he gestures to the blank page on top of Harry's notepad. Harry feels his cheeks heat up once again.

"What was your favourite, uh, time. Like in your career, or, business I should say maybe."

"Ohhh well, you want the short version or the long version love?" He grits through his teeth slowly, but of almost conversational manner. Harry notices the name he's called, but tries not to take much notice. Classic gesture of attempt to over power. Set the states. He'll be love or lovely and he'll be Sir or patient 0067. Harry knows exactly what it means and he plans to ignore it and instead focus on making their standings equal, even though one may be in chains and a muzzle.

"We have ten minutes so I'd say what ever you'd like. But I'd like to ask a few more questions in our time if you don't mind." Harry says politely, sounding confident in his own ears. The patient looks back at him. Harry can't read his face.

"My time," the patient starts. "It's my time we're consuming. But since your keen, i'll give it to you dry and simple yes?" the patient laughs shortly. Then leans in close once again. Harry feels as if he's closer then he really is. Like the glass is nothing to his demure.

"The sex. The drugs. The feeling of being on the run, I miss that feeling very much. Being feared. Being powerful. Watching people run from you, squeal. It's like the whole world is waiting in frenzy for you just to lift a finger. Better then any drug. Any fuck. Money can't buy or imitate that feeling."

It's the most the patient has ever talked and Harry listens so carefully he's almost disappointed his voice had came to a stop, meaning he had to fathom a response. He wishes he had more time to over analyse. To imagine. To dream of what that may be like. To be on the run constantly.

"Do you like having control?" Harry asks chewing on the tip of his pen. His untouched notebook long forgotten.

"Oh yes," the patient purrs. The question seems to excite him. Harry feels like he's hit the right spot.

There's a short silence. They watch each other shortly and Harry imagines the man opposite to him suddenly burying a bullet through his skull. He wonders how many people the man in front of him has killed. Mutilated. Tortured. The thought makes goosebumps on his arms but oddly excites him in his own twisted way of wanting to understand a mind like his. He wants to jump in it. See it for what it is. The in and outs. Complications. Sweet spots. All of it. But he has only ten minutes. Maybe seven now.

Harry decides to write something down. He picks at his pen from his lips and starts to scribble what ever comes to his mind in his ridiculously petite and curly hand writing. The patient watches his every move with complete examination.

"Nail polish huh?" The patient chuckles. "Oh this keeps getting better and better." The patient erupts into laughter that makes the chair squeak as he rocks in it.

Harry looks up momentarily. The patient has his forehead leant against the glass, the small patch of skin suctioned there and pinkish against his pale skin. His breath hovers over the glass making it fog up slightly. Harry's body shivers as he breathes slowly. The closeness makes him on edge, but the fear keeps him at bay, the sick adrenalin fuelling whats left. Harry bites his tongue, his whole body feeling as if pins were repeatedly pricking him.

"I don't mean to judge love but around here all there is is hunks, beards and moustaches. Saggy tits. Asses like flat tires. It gets old you see? I get bored. Often. But when something different comes around, well, I just can't help but to be curious."

Harry swallows. Letting the words translate in his head before he tries to create words through his quivering teeth.

"Do you get sexual urges often in institutions like this?" Harry decides to stick to the textbook this time.

"Oh come on, of corse. I'm a gentle man you see. You can't stick it out in public! No! You can dream though. Imagine. Use. Sweat. Bite all you like when it's just a camera rolling in your head right?" He says, this time his eyes trail up Harry's torso. Harry tries not to fixate to much on what may be rolling on tape at the moment.

"I think differences are good," Harry states, then pauses as he thinks. "They should be celebrated. Don't you agree?" He questions.

"Oh of corse. Same old same old gets boring. I hate being bored you see." The patient says.

"Do you think boredom is notable factor to cause your own violent behaviour? Or just criminal behaviour in general?" Harry asks. Stringing him on. "In your experience."

"Mmm. You see I get bored often. So yes. Probably. Excitement cures boredom temporarily and I know how to excite myself," the patient grins. "Do you Harry?"

Harry's lips curl upwards slightly. He notes how he forwards his own assumptions of himself onto him in almost conversation. The tone of his voice too is interesting. If Harry wasn't almost pissing himself he'd see it as some sick variation of usual flirting.

"I like to sing. Being on stage is exciting. Except I don't usually compromise the lives of others when in performance." Harry says.

"Well I guess we should celebrate our differences huh?" The patient chuckles.

"I guess so." Harry says smiling.

There's a small pause and Harry know's his time is almost up with a quick glance at his watch. The thought deflates him a little, but he feels content with how the situation had played out. He's almost proud of himself, but he doesn't want to psych himself out.

"My name's Louis,"

"I know." Harry says.

"Introductions are polite though," Louis smiles. "I'll see you soon Harry."

-

The noise of Harry's brown leather shoulder bag hits the counter in his lonely apartment. The noise almost stifles him even though he knew it was coming.

Then it's the sound of his boots. Click Clack. Heel first. His keys rattle in his hands.  
He walks towards the couch with his eyes gazing over the city. His apartment is far from luxury but a few sky scrapers are in view, little lights on each story are different shades of warm tones. Some out. Some on.  
Harry feels like a cliche but the sound of the city stirring below him is one of the most calming noises he's ever heard. When trying to sleep he always will gaze out the small rectangle window in his bedroom, imaging what life's are playing out in those small little boxes. It makes him feel calm.

Harry is exhausted. His answering machine is beeping, the small red light flicking on and off in cycle.  
He walks over to the end table near the arms of his cheap sofa and drops his keys down, then clicks the button to hear the message.

" _Hey Harry it's Mr Fallon. I know it's late but I want to personally congratulate you for your courage today. You're one of the only ones that made it through those fifteen minutes. You showed great success, I mean Tomlinson wouldn't shut up! It was Excellent,"_ Harry feels himself smile as he flops down on the couch. His rests his chin on his folded arms atop the arms of the sofa and listens to his professors voice continue.

" _They want to give you an internship Harry. Dr Goodwin approached me shortly after your time with the patient. It's fantastic,"_ Harry can't believe what he's hearing, did he just say internship? Dr Goodwin, one of the countries most successful psychologists offered him an internship. A job.  
_"Sleep well mate. I'll see you in class tomorrow_." The message then cuts and the voice of the recorder plays _'you have no new messages'._


	2. Chapter 2

Harry woke to the hum of the metropolis in it's early morning routine. The streets below were noisey and rid of havoc, but from the fifth floor where Harry leant against his dusty window sill every noise flattened into one continuous buzz. It excited him for the day ahead. His first official day at Goodwin Wing hospital.

The last week Harry had felt severely unfocused from his studies. His mind was constantly filled with what his internship may consist of, whether he'd get to see or talk to the patients again, who'd he'd be referring to. The thoughts tracked his brain through several loops of excitement, nerves and plain optimism. He'd never considered himself to be much of the competitive type, but it felt nice being noticed within his studies. His passions.  
His other colleagues who once threw him the odd smile or kind small talk before and after classes now spare him nothing but scoffs. His mother would of told him it all equated to inevitable jealously, but Harry felt more hated then constructively envied. It was overly lonely. Since he moved up state his ability to make friends seemed to slowly dissipate to hopeless attempts to make people like him. He found it much easier in high school, where he could flash a flirty smile and have people all around him constantly. It wasn't ever friendships that emotionally filled the lonely gap in his heart, but people liked him and his company, and he learnt to make people like him that way.

The thought banged at his chest when he drifted into his own full consciousness throughout the morning.  
The bus travelled out of town and the campus flashed before his eyes. Friends, groups of people laughing whilst sipping their caffeinated beverages looked so blissful and unaware.  
Harry swallowed self pitifully. The older women he gave his seat up for earlier doesn't spare him another glance all the way up to her spot. He felt invisible.

As he walked through the reception room of Goodwin Wing he forced his mind to switch gears. The receptionist lead him to Doctor Goodwin's office where he was expected by quarter past nine to start his first day.  
His watch read a few minutes before once he arrived, the receptionist flashing him a brief smile before leading him behind the huge mahogany double doors of the Doctor's office.  
With one deep breath Harry told himself to calm down and focus on maintaining good second impressions. He knocked on the door with no further thought.

"Come in," he heard a voice say. The receptionist gave him a lucky smile. He smiled nervously then turned, hearing the click clack of her heels on the concrete fade behind him. He pushed on the handle and twisted, then made his way up to his bosses desk.

The room before him was of adequate size. The ceiling was higher then the halls and the walls were alined with carefully placed certificates and other show worthy document. They were lined completely symmetrical and Harry felt out of place, his long unkept hair falling all over the place as he walked and his new work pants too loose and airy on his legs. He felt self aware to the point of anxiousness. All his limps felt too long and gawky. His hands trembled behind his back.

The oak desk in before him was shiny and expensive looking. The stapler, hole puncher and telephone were lined together perfectly, not a millimetre off.  
The whole room made him nervous. He was scared to touch anything, afraid he'd accidentally knock something out of place.

"Good morning Harry. How are you?" Doctor Goodwin asked pleasantly, briefly standing out of his chair to shake Harry's clammy hand. He smelt briefly of alcohol, but Harry wasn't phased, his head pounding with other thoughts.

"Uh, good thank you." He replies politely.

The Doctor gestures for him to sit so Harry obliges, stiffly placing his bottom on the uncomfortable maroon leather chair opposite to his. He swallows hard. The older man watches him carefully.

"It's my pleasure to welcome you once again to Goodwin Wing. It's great to see you again." The Doctor says almost script like. His face is old, but worked on, as if he had pegs at the back of his head holding his skin tight. It spoke money to Harry. Old money.

"I'm extremely grateful to be here." Harry says with a smile on his face. The Doctor smiles back at him rather condescendingly. It makes Harry more nervous.

"Well, your internship was granted after your successful short session with patient 0067. You showed extreme potential that day, something Goodwin Wing aspires to obtain within it's staff," he pauses as he searches the first draw of his desk for something. He then pulls out a file that's paper clipped in the left hand corner, the words 'Goodwin Wing Maximum Security Ward' printed in bold script within the header.  
Harry scans the document that is handed to him, his eyes scrolling bolder words such as 'legal requirements' and 'terms and conditions'.

"I require a signature. It's mostly for insurance and confidentiality. I'm sure you'll be most likely to comply," the Doctor says as Harry flips the page over.

"Then there's something special. Patient 0067 quite determined to see you again."  
Harry suddenly stops reading, his eyes searching Dr Goodwin's face as his mouth forms a petite 'o' of shock.

"Never have I heard such determination by a patient of these extremes for progressive therapy. I'm as shocked as you are." The Doctor laughs. It reminds Harry of his father. Deep and manly.

"He wants to see me?" Harry asks in disbelief. His mind seems to speed up even more. He thinks he might pass out.

"I'm not sure. We take these situations with extreme precaution Harry. I would never ask my staff to do something they are not entirely comfortable with." Dr Goodwin explains, his cold, lifeless eyes boring into Harry's young and confused face.

"You want me to see him again?" Harry asks shocked, laughing a little at the unexpectedness of it all. Why would he want to see me? _How would I? How can I?_

"Patient 0067 has had several Doctor's work with him. As you most likely know none of which have been successful," Dr Goodwin tells, and Harry thinks back to his research. He suddenly feels weak in the knees.

"Patient 0067 is extremely violent and unpredictable, we can not afford to have another Doctor on paid leave because of his violent outbursts. Do you understand this?" Dr Goodwin asks.

"I'm not qualified. I'm a psychology student Sir. I-I've never worked with-" Harry babbles, suddenly terrified.

"Which is why you will not be treating patients," he starts, clearing his throat. "We see it as cognitive counselling," "The patient has never shown this much passion towards recovery. We feel as if maybe if we can enable emotional progress with someone he is comfortable with, and then hopefully later therapy will be much more successful and progressive."

Harry reads the document shaking in his hands. It says what the Doctor had just told him, just only in an extremely more detailed, extensive and professional vocabulary that Harry's low B's in english can't all that well understand.  
He closes his eyes and takes a long breath. It calms him briefly, allowing him to think clearer.

"You're welcome to sleep on this Harry. I know this is extremely unexpected so I'm sure you have a lot to process." Dr Goodwin says.  
Harry bores his eyes into the paper in his hands until his eyes don't diverge like they should, and the size twelve font doubles and blurs before him.

He's so excited his stomach feels tense and almost frightened. He thinks back to his time with the man in a straight jacket and muzzle. It made his heart clench inwards and his lungs tighten up, his breath almost leaving him.  
It all made him so... nervous. He felt tingly all over, the thought of being in the patient's presence once again a thought so incomprehensible.  
The scenario frightened him. It was so dangerous, risky. It made his own once teenage heart expand until it bursted into fireworks.  
He knew what he wanted. It scared him and it made him weak with anticipation. He knew this dangerous mix all too well, but he couldn't convince himself of the reasons not to and maybe that was too dangerous for his mind to ever comprehend.

"No," he finally said. He furrowed his brow, his eyes briefly closed and he shook his head, ridding the voice that was doubting himself from his one way mind.

"Where do I sign?" He asked, and Dr Goodwin grinned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long im awful. This ones a bit of a filler so that's why it's short :)


End file.
